


sweetness hidden in my face

by zenosungs (pastelkoma)



Series: enamoured. [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, But we're getting there!, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Han Jumin Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vulnerability, Zen Truly Cares, because relationship is not truly established in this, he takes good care of jumin, hugging in the rain, though he'd never admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelkoma/pseuds/zenosungs
Summary: Jumin blinks, stricken, as Zen reaches over and tenderly drapes the coat over Jumin’s shoulders.It’s enough to undo Jumin completely. Zen watches as the man blinks once, twice, and a small “Hyun…” is uttered from his lips, quiet enough to almost get lost in the wind, but not entirely.Yeah? I'm right here, Jumin. I'm here.(OR: Reluctant hugs in the rain, unbelievable tenderness, and the realization that maybe Zen cares more about Jumin than they both think.)
Relationships: Han Jumin/Zen | Ryu Hyun
Series: enamoured. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829872
Comments: 40
Kudos: 203





	sweetness hidden in my face

**Author's Note:**

> i struggle to find fanfics of jumin x zen that is just sweet softness and comfort, so i aim to provide.
> 
> nothing suggestive, no porn. this fic is purely this: reluctant hugs in the rain, comforts while crying, eventual cuddles, and unbelievable tenderness. 
> 
> i understand jumin as a character, but the actual characterization i found difficult to write, so i hope i managed to somehow capture it + show him displaying weakness and vulnerability, which he never really shows, especially to somebody like zen.
> 
> title from "rare" by waterparks
> 
> enjoy!

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He finds himself on the living room sofa with half-lidded eyes that begrudgingly blink open, the world viewed through unfocused lens until he blinks a little more. Ah—he had fallen asleep, Zen realizes with an exhausted yawn escaping his lips. When had he fallen asleep? He can’t remember, all he can really recall is the sipping of beer and the TV drowning out, the soft pattering of pain drumming on the windows.

The rain—it’s grown heavier. It has never really been a bother to him, because on nights where it seemed like everything was falling apart, it seemed like the rain could wrap itself around him and provide him with a hug he rarely receives. It is easy to find comfort with things that give him the semblance of safety he needs, and tonight deems no different.

With a soft sigh, he sits up from where he has slumped over the arm of the sofa, and grunts a tad when a sharp pain hits him in his neck as a result from his uncomfortable sleeping position that seemed comfortable at the time. _Great_.

The world around him goes from unfocused to wine glass-clear, and only then does he focus on the rain a little bit more, thinking of reaching a hand out, meeting fingers with droplets of azure.

Then again, it’s late, and he can go to the rooftop, but with a glance at the clock, the idea seems unfit. After all, it is almost 3:00 a.m. All he can feel is the subtle ache within his bones, his body’s way of telling him to _go back to sleep, you stupid idiot!_ Suddenly, the idea of sinking into his bed seems a lot better than going to the rooftop just because he wants to sit in the rain like some kind of cliche main character movie scene. And he doesn’t _feel_ like the protagonist of anything, anyway; even if he tries to make it seem that way, he knows that he isn’t. He feels utterly _insignificant_.

Oh—consuming thoughts are a good sign that he really does need to rest.

Well, it’s decided. He’ll go to bed now.

Zen sits in his spot for a few more lingering seconds, trapped in some gentle waves of ataraxia, letting time do its ticking before he can be returned to shore. The world feels far too big, and definitely far too wide for somebody like Zen. The world moves below him like it wants to swallow him completely, and then again, maybe it should. If it's Zen… then maybe, the big world should.

Serenity is shattered when his phone starts to ring.

_Rrring… rrring…_

_Now who in the hell could be calling at this hour?_

His mind immediately drifts to Seven, because the happy-go-lucky boy has a knack for weird late-night calls, even though Zen is fortunate enough to not be on the receiving end. Perhaps it was Yoosung calling? It wouldn’t be the first time, because sometimes the young one either a) got drunk and emotional, or b) called Zen for a little blessing of comfort in the life of a lonely college student. It could be Jaehee, but that is unlikely, unless she was also subdued to wine and decided to make a drunk call.

Zen closes his eyes, really not up to chatting with somebody at this hour, not when it’s raining and all he wants to do is listen to it as he falls asleep under the covers. Maybe he could just… ignore the call? Ah, but it could be an emergency (which he truly hopes it is not). But even though he is Zen Who Is Swallowed By The Big World, he is also Prideful Zen Who Is There For His Friends, and even though the two aren’t yin and yang, he feels as if he must stay true to both sides.

Eyes still closed and phone still ringing, he feels around on the couch with a fatigue-shaky hand until he finds his phone and closes his fingers around it. Tired eyes granting him a glance, he looks to see who is calling him at 2:58 in the morning—

Oh.

_Oh._

**_...Jumin?_ **

Odd. No, odd doesn’t even begin to cover it. _Weird_ can’t even express how this situation is, either. Strange. Peculiar. _Idiosyncratic_ . That’s more like it, even though it really isn’t. Why the fuck is Han Jumin, of all the people in this earth, calling him? Not to mention at almost 3 in the morning. He expected Seven, Yoosung, Jaehee… but _Jumin?_ Mr. Trust-Fund-Kid-I-Don’t-Make-Stupid-Calls-With-My-Enemy Han Jumin? No, no, this is a dream. That’s right, this is a dream and maybe Zen hasn’t been awake. Hell, being asleep seems like a more believable option than whatever this is.

Because, Jesus Christ. Jumin and Zen don’t even talk much (and maybe it is because Zen physically recoils at the thought of having to talk to _that_ emotionless loser). And Zen hates the guy with a burning passion, so much that he feels like he is on fire whenever he merely thinks of the stupid rich dude. What gives that same stupid rich dude the right to call Zen, a sleepy unfocused exhausted Zen, at the weirdest hour? Nothing! Absolutely nothing.

No. No, he shouldn’t pick up. It would be stupid to pick up.

_But what if it’s an emergency—_

_Shut up,_ Zen tells himself. If it was an emergency, then why would stupid trust fund kid be calling _him_ , of all the people he could call? It doesn’t even make any sense. Jumin has absolutely no reason to call him during an emergency, shouldn’t he be calling over security guards or something? And even if it was an emergency, why should Zen help, anyway? He hates the guy. Absolutely _resents_ him.

So why does he feel as if he should answer the call?

If he ignores it… _if he ignores it, he can just go to bed and relax and…_

He finds himself pressing the button to answer the goddamn call.

Well, shit.

Okay, now he has to say something. Good going, Zen. Answering the call of your sworn enemy at the witching hour. Seems like there’s no getting out of this situation now, unless he just hangs up. Wait, that’s a good idea; if he hangs up now, he can just forget about it, and forget it ever happened. Sure, Jumin might mention it in the long run, but he can deal with that. He’s dealt with all of Jumin’s other bullshit, anyway, so it’s fine. This won’t make a difference, it—

 _“...Huh?”_ comes the voice on the other end.

Zen sits up sharply. No, that didn’t sound right. This was Jumin, but... why did he sound like this? 

_“Oh… I called…?”_ speaks Jumin again, and there’s an obvious splash of disorientation to his typically composed voice, and that’s just one cause of concern amongst many. Upon listening more intently, Zen can make out the sounds of the outside rain on Jumin’s end, rain that sounds way too loud and personal for the other man to be _inside_ his house. Jumin… outside in the rain? But why? Why now? 

“Jumin?” Zen finally says, surprising himself when his voice comes out as worried. “Jumin, what’s going on?”

 _“...Zen,”_ the other man says in a soft tone of realization, like he is just now realizing whose number he had called. The name is uttered into the folds of the night before the wind on his end of the phone carries it away, and then Jumin grunts slightly. 

“Jumin?” Zen says again. No, this isn’t good. From what he’s hearing, Jumin is disoriented and out in the rain for some reason. For what reason? What the fuck is going on and why is _Zen_ the person he had to reach out to? He has to ask questions, and if he has to somehow coax them out of Jumin, so be it. So be it. “Jumin, where are you?”

 _“...Ah.”_

“That isn’t an answer to my question, you idiot,” Zen grumbles, but beneath his words lie unprecedented concern, concern that shouldn’t even exist there, and yet, Zen can’t help it. Fuck, he can’t help it. He’s _worried_.

 _“Not home… I think,”_ Jumin mutters, words almost dissipating into harsh winds. His voice is slow, gravelly as always, but there isn’t the wit behind his tone. None of that sharp, intelligent bravado coated with a thick layer of indescribable pride. It simply isn’t there, not right now; right now, Jumin’s voice sounds stripped of all of it, replaced by a bewildered, small voice, one that doesn’t belong to people like Jumin. One that _definitely_ shouldn’t belong to people like Jumin.

“You _think?_ ” Zen barks, standing up swiftly. “Jesus Christ, where are you, Jumin? Jumin?”

_“Walking.”_

“You dumbass, walking _where?_ Jumin, it’s raining! It’s raining heavily! Are you stupid or what? You could get sick, idiot! It’s cold outside, and…” Zen stops himself there. Is he… is he really worrying for the guy? How can he? _Why_ can he? No, that can’t be it. He’s just… angry. Angry, yes, that’s it. Angry that the dumb guy will get sick under his watch, because he just so happened to call Zen, and now he’s his responsibility. Wonderful, absolutely fucking wonderful.

 _“I don’t…”_ Jumin says, voice trailing off, and he sounds so small. Fragile. The opposite of what he is. Jumin is strong and the embodiment of an emotionless man whose composure is kept together as always. He isn’t this. He isn’t whatever he is right now. _“I don’t know… I thought… that maybe…!”_

Zen’s heart leaps into his throat when he hears the man choke up. He can’t help it; even more concern blossoms in his chest, because _what the fuck,_ Jumin just choked up with his words, like he was about to _cry_ or something. And Jumin doesn’t cry. Never in his entire life has Zen seen Jumin cry. He has seen Yoosung at his lowest, Seven in tears, Jaehee’s watery eyes behind shameful hands, but not Jumin. Never Jumin. Never, ever, ever Jumin.

“Jumin…” Zen mumbles. “Hey. It’s okay.”

(Great, now he’s comforting him. Zen’s pride is really reducing with every second.)

 _“I just…!”_ Jumin says, words catching in his throat with a sharp gasp at the end, and Zen clenches the phone tighter. There’s a long beat of silence that is only shattered by the sounds of the pouring rain bouncing off Jumin’s phone. _“Hyun.”_

Zen has little time to process the usage of his real name. “Right here.”

_“Please… Please just…”_

“Alright,” Zen says, the word already sitting on his tongue. He reaches into his pocket, wraps a hand around his car keys. He doesn’t hesitate; he just wants Jumin to stop sounding like that, like a desperate child, one that’s been hiding for so long, fighting its way to the surface and bursting in an explosion of emotions that even someone like Han Jumin may not have control over. “Gotcha. I’m coming. I’ll get you.”

(Just this once, Zen will let his pride be reduced.)

“Stay on the phone with me,” Zen mutters as he makes a rushed beeline for the front door, hating how concerned he sounded (it was not normal for him to be concerned over the trust fund jerk, but then again, this is not a normal situation at all). When Jumin doesn’t respond, Zen hurries. He feels like he has to. “Jumin, stay on. Tell me where you are. Do you know where you are?”

_Come on, you stupid idiot. Let me know where you are so I can stop feeling this worried._

_“Not home,”_ Jumin mumbles, and his voice is getting quieter and quieter; he isn’t a loud guy in the first place, but all of his words are said with firmness rooting them to the ground, completely solid, unwavering. But right now, every word of his is punctuated with a slight tremor that doesn’t scream Jumin at all. If Zen didn’t have good ears, he would probably miss what Jumin is saying, due to how damn quiet the idiot is whispering the words, like he is completely unaware it’s raining and his voice will be drowned out along with the rainwater.

Ah, wait. Yeah, it’s raining.

Shit, Zen didn’t bring an umbrella, he rushed out too quickly. He speedwalks to his car, almost running at this point, paying no mind to the heavy rain that litters his face in what feels like tiny punches—he’s focused on Jumin, and Jumin only, _Jumin_ , who has stopped talking to him. Zen curses silently, long legs carrying him over to his car; he grunts slightly as a strong gush of wind almost is enough to knock him over, rain whipping into his face, and _what the fuck, Jumin is outside in weather like this._

“Jumin? Hey, jerk, talk to me, dammit,” Zen hisses as he practically launches himself into the driver’s seat, shaking rainwater from his hair and clothes with no care of how he’s practically drenching the interior of his car. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters except for that dumb trust fund jerk, and the undeniable distress that can’t help but seed its way into the pit of Zen’s stomach. When Jumin doesn’t reply, the only tangible sounds being the rain on his end of the phone, Zen slams his foot on the gas with a sharp exhale through clenched teeth. “ _Jumin!_ Talk to me, where the hell are you?”

_“Ah. Sidewalk…? Cannot be too far from home...”_

“So am I just going to have to drive around until I find you?” Zen scoffs in disbelief, like he isn’t completely fine with the idea, when in reality, he just wants to find Jumin at this point. What comes next after doing so is undecided, but that isn’t his priority. He has to find that stupid jerk and get him out of the rain first, and then everything that’s up in the air can be determined subsequently. 

Jumin doesn’t acknowledge Zen’s previous statement. _“...I apologize for my incompetence,”_ he murmurs instead, and Zen definitely doesn’t miss the way his voice almost, almost, _almost_ cracks near the end of his sentence, like the man is a few seconds away from shattering completely. It’s more than enough to make Zen drive even faster, windshield wipers fighting against the rain that drums against the glass; Zen wears a grimace as he attempts to see as clearly as possible in spite of the water that blurs his view. 

The rain is comforting, and it wraps itself around Zen in difficult times, but not right now. Right now, it’s one of the only things keeping Zen from reaching Jumin as fast as he can arrive.

“Incompetence, my ass,” Zen says. “Don’t move. You’re near your penthouse, right? Just stay put. I’m coming as fast as I can.”

Jumin’s penthouse is located in the city, and Zen knows the city pretty well, and this means that he also knows that some spoiled rich guy like Han Jumin definitely shouldn’t be roaming the city at hours like these. The last thing Zen needs is for Jumin to be attacked or kidnapped by some weirdo on the streets—the man is probably more than capable of defending himself (even without the help of bodyguards), but he seems far from okay, far from the right mindset to be able to have sharp reflexes if someone were to strike against him. Great, that’s just another thing for Zen to worry about.

“Jumin?” Zen calls out when the silence stretches on far too long for his comfort. “Hey, Jumin. I’m almost there. Keep talking to me. So I—” he stops himself with a dismissive grunt, the words _so I know you’re okay_ resting on the tip of his tongue. It’s fucking outrageous that _he_ has to be the one to do this, that he’s the person the universe decided would be the person to track down and worry for the well-being of a certain idiot who Zen believes doesn’t deserve it. But. It _is_ him, and now Zen has no choice. (Or maybe he did—he didn’t _have_ to come and help his sworn not-really-enemy—but, ah. He isn’t ready to admit that to himself.)

A beat of silence.

Two.

 _“It’s raining,”_ Jumin says.

Zen can’t stop the peal of laughter that erupts from his lungs, laced with relief, a sensation that only grows once he approaches the penthouse and turns a corner. “Yeah, you jerk. It is.”

Okay, the penthouse is in sight, brightly lit amongst the rest of the city. His tires screech against the slosh of rainwater on concrete as he turns another corner, eyes fixated, searching for anything to indicate the location of Jumin. Zen curses under his breath as Jumin falls silent again, and he turns a corner with another small cuss, barely dodging the sidewalk in a fit of desperation. He’s close, he’s so _close_ , he just needs to find him, just needs to know that he really is okay, just needs to see him and calm down the raging beast in his chest cavity that does nothing but quicken the spread of concern within his veins, electrifying, _daunting_.

The street lights flicker, a brief ghost of gleam dancing through the rain; Zen has sharp eyes, and if he didn’t, he may have missed the quick reflection of orange street light against pitch-black hair.

 _Jumin_.

“I see you,” Zen says, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding, as he ends the call.

Jumin is standing, completely drenched, his back facing Zen. However, there is none of that confident, business-like posture, but rather, he looks frighteningly small; one hand holding his phone to his ear, his free arm wrapped around himself in some kind of pathetic form of sanctuary. _Sanctuary?_ From what? His emotions? The world?

Whatever it is, it isn’t Jumin. Not at all. It terrifies Zen, in some twisted way, as he irresponsibly parks his car (almost ramming into the curb in the process) at an alarming speed. 

_He’s right there. Come on. Come on!_

(Despite this, despite everything; the rain that drips from Jumin’s hair, the way the pale street light mingles with the moonlight against pearlescent skin, the way the wind looks strong enough to knock over the one person Zen thought was strong enough to withstand it… there’s that little nagging voice in the back of his mind, painfully distracting, the one that says _you don’t care about him. That’s Han Jumin, that rich jerk you hate the most. You don’t need to do this for him. He_ **_doesn’t deserve it.)_ **

“Just this once, he does!” Zen yells, stumbling out of his car, almost tripping over his own feet. He slams the car door shut with force he hadn’t known was in him. _Even stupid jerks like Han Jumin deserve someone to care about them sometimes!_ “Jumin!” he cries out, long legs carrying him across the concrete, a hand coming up to shield his face from the rain that whips into his face. He winces slightly before crying out again, " _Jumin!_ ”

The man stands up straighter—he falters for a second that feels like a minute, before he turns his head. Even from a distance, Zen can see the reflection of moonbeams against milky skin, skin that glows from time to time with fairy raindrops, coral lips parted in gentle surprise. The weather comes between them and blurs Zen’s vision, so that the older man stands as if behind a crinkled film, but his bright eyes are unmistakable to identify. Crimson red meets almost-onyx silver. 

“Jumin!” Zen calls out again, and he may be good with line delivery and letting his voice be heard due to the musicals he participates in, but despite his best effort the roar of the earsplitting downpour still manages to drown out the desperate call of his name. Jumin stands, unfaltering, and yet, still so terrifying _small_ , something delicate. He takes one step towards Zen. And then he takes one more.

_God, come on, Zen, he’s right there._

Zen finally reaches him, shivering by now, teeth chattering furiously. He reaches out, wanting to do something, _anything_ —wants to pull him into a hug, or even just touch his shoulder, just _anything_ to signify to Jumin that _he’s here, Zen is here, Zen came for you._

“I’m here, Jumin,” Zen says, fingers hesitant, just barely brushing against the other’s shoulder, before Jumin’s eyes flash with something Zen can’t decipher; the black-haired man jerks away from Zen’s barely-there brush of fingertips against his shoulder, clear rejection.

And in any other moment, Zen would have gotten irritated, would have yelled something along the lines of _“I rushed over here, and I don’t even get a thank you?!”_ But this isn’t any other moment—if Zen’s future self told him that he would have to console Han Jumin, resident trust fund jerk, in the pouring rain… he simply wouldn’t believe it. But this situation is real, and it’s tangible, undeniably palpable in every sense of the word. 

So, he doesn’t get irritated. Not when Jumin looks just like he sounded on the phone; a second and a half away from shattering.

“Okay,” Zen says, voice soft. He lowers his hand and Jumin relaxes his stance slightly, something akin to helpless confusion plastered to his face. “Okay,” Zen repeats, and without a thought to fuel him by, he begins to shrug off his coat. He pays no mind to Jumin when the man’s lips part to say words that get stuck in his throat—the dumb dude is clad in a business suit, tie and everything, and it strikes Zen as a little ridiculous.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Zen mutters, voice quiet, and yet, loud enough to be heard over the wind. He successfully finishes shrugging off his coat, and even though it is soggy, it’s better than nothing. “You can push me away right now all you want to. But you called me, and therefore I came here, you idiot, so even if you don’t talk to me it’s kinda your fault I’m here in the first place. Also—don’t forget that it’s raining, so here.” 

Jumin blinks as Zen reaches over and tenderly drapes the coat over Jumin’s shoulders.

It’s enough to undo Jumin completely. Zen watches as the man blinks once, twice, and a small “Hyun…” is uttered from his lips, quiet enough to almost get lost in the wind, but not entirely. 

_Yeah? I’m right here, Jumin. I’m here._

Zen opens his arms just in time for Jumin to stumble into them, the exhaustion in him so painfully obvious that it seeps into Zen’s own bones, cracks them open. Zen is many things when he is with Jumin; cold, irritated, exasperated… but this once, just this once, he can allow himself to be more. Comforting. Tender, and gentle. He can be whatever Jumin needs right now.

Jumin and Zen are not huggers, but that doesn’t stop Zen from wrapping his arms around the man, a gentle hand pushing his head into his shoulder. 

“I’m here,” Zen repeats again. It’s strange, because Jumin doesn’t show his emotions, a complete robot, shutting himself out from the world whenever he felt something that he wasn’t familiar with. So for Zen to see him so vulnerable, feeble in his arms, it almost scares him. It scares him to see such passion and strength flickering out, mimicking the street lights that illuminate their silhouettes, letting the moon catch a glimpse of the two men molded together as one.

Jumin wobbles a bit, before he drops to his knees with a heaving breath. Zen drops down with him, wincing a bit as the hard concrete meets his knees, but his arms stay put around the older man—never losing their grip. It doesn’t matter if Jumin’s own arms are limp to his sides, not hugging Zen back, because all that matters is that Zen is holding him safe in his own little haven, _I have you, Jumin, I promise_. 

But nothing can prepare Zen for the soft shaking of Jumin’s shoulders, too prominently obvious for it to be normal. Figuring it’s probably the cold that’s getting to him, Zen tightens his hold on the man in a futile attempt to warm him up, but his shoulders only begin to shake more, and—oh. _Oh_.

“Jumin? Are you crying?” Zen questions, _gentlegentle_ , like anything spoken even remotely louder will somehow find a way to break Jumin completely. When the man shakes his head against Zen’s shoulder, an audibly loud sob can be heard over the increasingly frigid wind, muffled and soft, but still doubtlessly _there_. Han Jumin: stone-cold, agelast, stoically emotionless—Han Jumin: imploding in Zen’s arms, splintering into fragments, sobbing against his shoulder.

Jumin shakes his head against Zen’s shoulder, in some sort of frantic way, like he’s shameful of it. The albino feels Jumin swallow thickly with a gasping hitch of his breath, a some kind of futile attempt to hold back his tears; his efforts are for naught, evident when he shudders violently with another breathy sob that vibrates against Zen’s body. 

Zen rolls his eyes slightly—the guy is still so emotionally constipated even though he’s a good 0.2 seconds away from exploding in his entirety. 

“It’s okay, y’know,” Zen says with a light chuckle. “To cry. It doesn’t make you any less strong.”

It’s a concept, one that probably doesn’t make sense to the man in his arms, because all Jumin has known all his life is to bottle things up, _hurt people hurt people_ whilst hurting himself in the process, viewing emotions as a waste of time that he never dared to meddle with. It’s a good thing Zen has a gift of persistence; he’ll make sure Jumin knows that it’s okay to allow himself a moment of vulnerability, and if that moment has to be spent out in the rain in the big city at almost 4 a.m., be it. _So be it._

Zen startles faintly when Jumin’s hands—long-fingered, shaky—brush against his back, in a way that feels like he is making sure that Zen is okay with him hugging back. Zen nods a little, the confirmation Jumin needs. Zen shudders a little at the palms that press into his back, pushing his soaked shirt against his skin, but he doesn’t mind. Not anymore, but then again, he never really did. It’s raining, but Zen would rush out in the rain again for Jumin in a heartbeat.

Maybe it’s because Zen is holding him so tightly, maybe it’s because of the pounding rain against pearlescent skin, but the inevitable happens. Jumin shatters.

It starts with a noticeably louder sob, which then only leads to another, thunderous enough to compete with the reverberating howling of the wind. Soft sobs gradually morph into an excruciating wail, a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard, a sound that makes Zen tighten his hold. Jumin lets himself be undone completely, lifting his head and hooking his chin on the albino’s shoulder so that his noises would no longer be muffled, but rather, agonizingly wailed into the folds of the night. 

Childlike half-screams tear the air apart, hands clawing at Zen’s shirt with a vice-like grip. Zen is certain that the stars are crying along, flickering along with the man in his arms, soft radiance turned into dulled firelight, a breeze away from extinguishing to the core. Zen has never seen Jumin in such a state; a hopeless animal reduced to the sonorous sobs he is emitting. It’s enough to think that the thunderstorm isn’t the rain, nor is it the downpour—the thunderstorm is Han Jumin, delicate and quavery, guttural cries replacing aristocratic composure, so unlike him at all.

Or maybe, this _is_ him, the side of him that he refuses to show everyone, the side of him that hoards inumerable bottles of emotions stored away, never to be seen again.

There isn’t much for Zen to do in the moment, but perhaps, that’s enough for Jumin right now. For someone to be here for him, hold him, soothe him in ways he doesn’t get to experience. Because Jumin, idiot rich kid Jumin, doesn’t get to have this; someone there to ground him when he’s losing himself to tears. So this once… Zen can let his pride be reduced to zero, if it means that this stupid dumb idiot moron jerk will be okay in the end of it all.

(If Zen’s future self visited him and told him that one fateful day he would be holding that trust fund jerk in his arms, keeping him steady as he sobs, kneeling in the pouring rain, Zen’s own jacket draped on Jumin’s shoulders… he would laugh. But this is real, this is physical.)

Zen’s knees ache from pressing against the concrete, and they’re both absolutely saturated with frigid rainwater, but he’s here for Jumin, and really, that’s all that matters right now.

“It’s okay,” Zen repeats again, a litany that he continues to utter softly into the wailing man’s ear. “It’s okay. I promise you, I have you, and it’s okay.”

The world is big, intricately massive, and sometimes Zen feels like he’s being swallowed by it. Not now, though; right now, the world feels small. It feels miniscule and tiny and bloated with cries and sweet nothings. The world feels like Ryu Hyun and Han Jumin, two men kneeling in the midst of a storm in the vibrant city, fairies of moonlight tiptoeing against goosebump-littered skin—ethereally luminescent, even as one man is losing his glow—the other will be there to fan the flames back, there to rebuild him, earnest in his goal to make him blaze once more. Even if Zen sort of hates the guy, he sort of doesn’t at the same time, and that’s enough for the both of them.

Zen doesn’t loosen his hold for a second.

  
  
  


The drive back to Zen’s apartment is a quiet one.

Jumin is desperately trying to regain his composure, Zen can tell by the way he attempts to straighten his posture and avoid his eyes in the passenger seat. If he’s being honest, Zen had thought that once Jumin got his senses back he would push Zen away, but weirdly enough he let the albino keep a hand on his back as they walked over to the car. The older man is still wavering, eyes a light shade of red and cheeks a blotchy blush of pink from his crying fit, and he’s quiet, but he’s more coherent so that’s better than nothing. 

Jumin’s quickly growing more aware of—everything, really, by the way he had tried to shove Zen’s jacket back into his hands, to which Zen cursed at him and made him hold onto it because “you’re shivering and you’ve been in the rain far longer than I was” so Jumin had complied, not up for much of a quarrel as he exhaustedly nodded at Zen through half-lidded eyes.

The drive is silent for a little bit longer, before Jumin murmurs in a hoarse voice, “This is not the way back to my home.”

Zen snorts. “You’re just noticing that now? I don’t know if the rain messed up your memory or whatever, but I wouldn’t do very well around your furball if I went to your place.”

“But… you could have dropped me off in the front. I could have managed.”

“Sorry to break it to you, trust fund jerk, but I don’t think you’re in any state to be able to take care of yourself alone.” He spares a glance at the other man, whose gaze is pointedly fixated on the window, staring at nothing. Something in Zen softens, even though he’s gone softer today for the dude, softer than he could have ever imagined. “Just… stay with me for tonight. Just tonight.”

_What the fuck are you doing, inviting this enemy jerk into your own home, this is horrible, so horrible—_

“I cannot accept such an offer,” Jumin says after a bout of hesitation. His voice is scratchy from scream-sobbing for a good while, and it makes Zen think about what kind of tea he should make for him to soothe his voice. _Ah. He really has gone soft._

“Yes, you can. You called me, so you should expect this.”

Jumin falls quiet for a few moments, thinking, before he opens his mouth again. “I am soaking the interior of your car.”

“Jeez, is that really what you’re worried about?” Zen retaliated with a small scrunch of his nose. _Ridiculous_ , is what it is. “You’re absolutely hopeless. It’s going to dry eventually. This thing… it isn’t worth much, anyway, so you don’t really need to worry about it.”

Jumin makes no comment on how ludicrously nice the albino is currently being, leaving Zen to wonder if he is choosing to ignore it, or if he really has not noticed at all. Given his current state of still mild disorientation, Zen hopes that it’s the latter (because seriously, this is the one time Zen will be nice to him. _Seriously_.)

Zen has the uncomfortable desire to mention the elephant in the room—why Jumin was crying, why he had stumbled outside in the rain, all the questions he wants to ask but doesn’t feel as if he should. Perhaps he shouldn’t press; maybe Jumin needs some space after being smothered by Zen for a pretty good amount of time. Even if Jumin felt so right in his arms, and all Zen saw was purple, suffocated with violet aura, one that had deadened prominently; drenched in gray rain, mixing, colors swirling to make bright purple turn a somber plum.

No, he doesn’t need to ask questions, at least not yet. Not when Jumin is still so soft, so— _delicate._

Delicate, huh? It’s laughable. Han Jumin, the pinnacle of dignity, the definition of being put together. Tonight, he is quivering in all of his unparalleled fragility, new and terrifying, and yet, Zen can’t help but want to console him through it all. He isn’t sure if that’s pathetic or not, to have such a weird yearning to provide his sworn nemesis with comfort, but after tonight’s events nothing really seems strange anymore. (Maybe everything has been so strange that Zen is already getting used to it.)

“...I do not know if you’re sure about this,” Jumin says, a ghost of a whisper under his breath.

Zen fights the urge to look at him and shoot him some sort of comforting smile. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the road, and settles for a few words. “You listening to me, idiot? Tonight I am sure. Tonight you can stay. You can reunite with your dumb cat tomorrow.”

“Elizabeth the 3rd is not dumb,” Jumin protests with a wavery voice, but there’s a lighter lilt to it, something special, something that is the first drop of sunsplash emerging through lurid clouds. It makes Zen smile, just a little bit, and he hopes Jumin doesn’t see it.

“Then she’s plain stupid.”

He half expects Jumin to retort back, but the man doesn’t; he simply grunts, but not irritably. Zen watches out of the corner of his eye as Jumin tugs Zen’s jacket tighter around his frame. The albino never thought that he’d be someone to bring Jumin warmth, but yet, here they are, in the car together with Zen’s jacket pulled closely around Jumin’s body. Neither protest against anything, merely welcoming this, whatever _this_ is, with open arms.

The rest of the drive is thickened with quiet, but it’s no longer the heavy kind.

By the time they get to the apartment, Zen wonders if Jumin had fallen asleep. With a quick glance to the other, he sees him wide awake instead (as wide awake as you can be when completely exhausted), and Zen hums. “We’re here.”

“I’m aware. You parked the car.”

“But you’re not making any move to get out,” Zen deadpans with an eye roll before clambering out of the driver’s seat. He circles around the vehicle, and once he reaches Jumin’s side, his hand reaches out on instinct to open the car door for Jumin—only to be stopped when the man opens the door himself. Zen recoils with a sharp _tsk_ , looking away as if he wasn’t just about to open the door for Jumin. He knew he had gone soft, but this was an entirely new level. Opening the door for the rich brat like he was the guy’s _servant_ or something.

“Walk fast so you don’t get any more soaked than you already are,” Zen mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets before making a beeline for the entrance to his apartment. The rain trickles down his face but he remains unbothered, only focusing on Jumin’s footsteps behind him, making sure the guy wouldn’t somehow get lost or something. 

“Ah, yes. Your tiny home.”

“Shut up, not everyone is rich like you are.”

Zen, taking longer strides, reaches the door first. He hesitates slightly before unlocking it and swinging it open, brushing his soaked shoes against the Welcome mat to get some of the wetness out before heading inside. Jumin follows suit, and Zen thinks he hears the man take in a sharp inhale as the door shuts softly behind them. They’re greeted with a rush of warm air, a complete difference from the cold rain, and it makes Zen thankful that he fell asleep before he could turn the air conditioner on.

“Hang up my coat right there on the rack,” Zen says with a small nod to the line of hooks on the wall, a few littered items of clothing already decorating them. “And take your shoes off, leave them on the floor where all the other shoes are.”

Jumin obeys, not like he has much choice to do so, but Zen is surprised at how easily he does. Typically the man would have protested with something along the lines of him being capable enough to know where his things are supposed to go, but tonight, Jumin is different in the same way as he is pliable. Again, tender. Delicate.

“I cannot sit on your sofa without getting it wet,” Jumin says.

“If you’re so concerned, then I’ll go get a towel for you to sit on, _master_ ,” Zen shoots back without any real fire behind his words. Before he can go on to retrieve a towel from the bathroom, a hand—calloused, yet soft—wraps itself around his wrist. Zen stops breathing for a second too long.

Jumin keeps his hold on Zen’s arm, eyes downcast. Shameful. Guilty? “No, it’s fine. I will get it myself.”

Zen grunts and shakes himself free from Jumin’s hold. “You’re just going to leave a trail of water on my beautiful floor,” he retorts, even though he technically is going to be doing the same thing. “I’ll go. I need to get some new clothes for us, anyway.”

“Clothes?” Jumin pipes up, baritone voice tiny. 

Zen looks away, because _spare him_ , oh lord, Jumin looks like a little puppy. A hurt, soaking wet, tall puppy—and Zen can _not_ afford to go any softer than he already is. “Well, obviously! Unless you want to stay in your wet business suit, then fine by me, I don’t care.”

“Okay then. I do not sleep in pajamas anyways.”

Zen sputters at the other’s concise response. “I-I was _kidding!_ And besides, you’re going to get my place all wet if you sleep in your damned suit!” he snaps, before taking a swift turn on his heel so he can go to get a towel from the bathroom, _without_ Jumin stopping him.

“I said _I_ will get the towel,” Jumin argues. Zen hears the man stand up, and with an exasperated sigh, the albino turns to face him again. 

“Fine, then. You’re lucky I’m tolerating you,” he fires back through clenched teeth, before stopping himself once seeing the unyielding look that has stricken Jumin’s face. Ashamed, ashen. Zen thinks for a bit and then understands; Jumin, who is self-assured and keeps his emotions pushed down so as to not show weakness on the surface, showed a part of himself to Zen tonight and let himself be taken care of by the man. It’s no wonder he wants to do things for himself now—perhaps he feels like he showed too much weakness, or maybe, Zen wanting to do everything for him right now seems a little too overwhelming. 

That being said, Zen relaxes a tad with a soft sigh. “You’re still a real jerk, you know that? Go get the towel, dry yourself a bit, and I’ll go get the clothes.” He falls quiet, then: “And, Jumin? You don’t need to do everything yourself, I’m right here and technically you’re a guest at my place, so let yourself be taken care of. At least tonight.”

Jumin blinks, in a way that makes him look like he’s processing everything that Zen said, before turning in silence and making a beeline for the bathroom.

_God, that jerk._

Zen scowls at the direction Jumin walked off, sticking his tongue out just to express his disdain a little bit more. With a humph, he strides to his bedroom, flicking the lights on and practically swinging his closet doors open. Ah… this all feels so strange to him, the fact that he’s the one who’s taking care of _Jumin_. And the fact that he can’t stop himself from doing so. If someone were to ask Zen if he cared about Han Jumin, never in a million years would he _admit to it_ , but. Tonight, things have become washed away in clarity. 

When Jumin comes into Zen’s room after a few minutes, hair and skin noticeably drier, Zen grasps the chance to steal a brief glance at him. The tip of his nose is still dusted with the color of aurora, eyes moderately puffy and swollen, but he no longer looks as if he’s on the verge of (another) breakdown. Zen takes it as a win.

“Here,” Zen says, tossing the articles of clothing to Jumin, who just barely manages to catch them. “Give me your old clothes when you’re finished changing, I’ll toss them in the washing machine.”

“...Zen. You’re quite the mother.”

“Shut _up._ ”

While Jumin changes in the bathroom, Zen finds himself in the kitchen, preparing some goddamned hot chocolate for the both of them. With a small grumble he plops some mini marshmallows into the two mugs (telling himself that he’s only putting extra in Jumin’s just to help soothe his throat). 

Footsteps approaching him makes the albino jump vaguely, turning, and he’s met with Han Jumin: clad in a slightly-too-big baby blue sweater, sweatpants clinging loosely to his skinny frame. He looks somewhat lost, confusion scattered on his features as he tugs the sweater sleeves up so that they don’t make paws; Zen snickers. 

“I don’t understand these commoner clothes,” Jumin says, annoyance making an appearance in his tone as the sweater sleeves slip down to swallow his hands once more. “Why is this sweatshirt so abnormally large? It makes no sense. The pants are also strangely sizable.”

“Dude, not everything is going to fit tightly like a business suit, y’know. Have you ever worn anything else other than suits in your life? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were born with a suit on, out of the womb and everything.”

Jumin furrows his brows in distaste, like he’s never heard anything so absurd.. “Of course I have worn things other than suits. But… your clothing… is ridiculously oversized.” As if to prove his point, he holds his hands up, where the blue sleeves hang over them, hiding his hands completely. “ _Look_.”

Zen laughs before he can stop himself, also unable to stop the uttered “Cute,” that falls from his lips.

Oh. Wait. _Shit_. “I-I mean, you look stupid,” he quickly says, even glaring at Jumin to make his cover up of the mistake more believable. When Jumin merely tilts his head in confusion, Zen smirks. _Nice save, Zen, nice save._

Jumin glares back, before his attention is averted to the mugs on the kitchen counter. He does a double-take before his eyes light up. “What is that?”

“Hot chocolate… to soothe your throat.” 

Jumin inspects it. “Odd. It doesn’t nearly look as fancy as the ones I see in restaurants.”

“I’m not a fucking five-star restaurant! Stop talking like a rich kid for one second, you trust fund jerk! Do you think I can do any better than this?” Zen snaps. He opens his mouth to spew another annoyed retort, but the words lodge in his throat, unable to escape once he sees the corners of Jumin’s mouth curl up slightly. The black-haired man laughs, a rich noise almost as delicate as the guy it’s coming from, and Zen is taken aback—all the words he wanted to say dissipate in his lungs, turning into particles of air that he exhales slowly. Jumin has laughed at Zen before, but only as a way to take pleasure and amusement from when he teases him. Zen can’t recall if there was ever a time Jumin laughed because he found what _Zen_ said as amusing.

“I suppose it will do,” Jumin says, smile still lingering on his lips.

Zen grunts and pretends to not notice the way startling gray eyes brighten after Jumin sips at the hot chocolate. Pretends to not notice the way his stomach bursts with warmth. With a _tsk_ Zen starts to walk to the bedroom, hands gripping his own mug with such ferocity he feels as if he might burst along with the heat in his stomach.

Jumin is hot on his trail, the sound of small sips filling the now-silent apartment. Zen can’t help but wonder if Jumin appreciates the extra marshmallows. (Not that Zen cares, anyway. Of course he doesn’t.)

The bedroom feels warmer tonight. Maybe it’s because Jumin unconsciously fills the void of aloneness that Zen has gotten so used to in his tiny, semi-underground apartment. 

Zen sighs as he drops down to sit on the edge of his bed, hot chocolate mug in his hands long forgotten even as he stares at it intensely so as to avoid Jumin’s gaze he can sense is on him. Jumin takes a seat next to Zen—suddenly, it’s not only the room that feels warmer, either.

A heartbeat of silence. 

Another brief palpitation.

Then, “Thank you,” Jumin says, voice quiet and no longer so hoarse (maybe the hot chocolate did do the trick). Zen sneaks a glimpse at the man, who is staring down at his mug. “Truly.”

Zen wants to say, _of course you have to thank me! I didn’t have to come and pick you up!_ He opens his mouth, and then: “There’s nothing to thank me for,” Zen says instead, as if on autopilot, because where had those words even come from? “But I would like to know why you called me. Out of everyone that you could’ve reached, you called _me_. I mean, don’t we hate each other?” It sounds silly to say, considering the given circumstances.

Jumin sighs. Runs a sweater paw covered hand over his face. “I do not recall exactly why I reached you. I apologize. Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it wasn’t. Everything feels messy up in my head.”

The answer isn’t enough to satisfy, and perhaps Jumin senses that, because then he shoots an apologetic glance at Zen. The albino shakes his head. “That’s alright. I was only curious.”

“I would like to thank you again.”

“Dude, seriously, you don’t have to. I know we hate each other and all, but… I’m here for you, okay? And anyway, you’re a part of RFA, so of course I’ll care about you a little. Ugh, nevermind that. The point is, I’ll be here if you ever need me, alright? Just like tonight.”

Zen is met with silence after his words fade away. Oh, jeez. Had he said something wrong? Maybe he had given the wrong impression, because he really doesn’t want the trust fund jerk to think he cares about him _so much_ , because really, _seriously_ , Zen only cares about him a little, and—

Zen blinks, feeling time stop, once he hears a soft hiccup from next to him.

“Jumin?” he says, turning his head and feeling all words leave him once he sees the jerk. Jumin’s hands are clutching onto the mug so tightly that his knuckles are turning white; his head is hanging, black hair acting as a curtain to shield his face, but there’s no mistaking the tears that even Zen can see falling. Oh, _shit_. What had he said that was wrong? Is this because of Zen?

Zen reaches out with a hand, only to be stopped when Jumin shakes his head with a convulsive hiccup that makes his shoulders jolt. This isn’t like out in the rain, because Jumin is more coherent right now than he was disoriented in the thunderstorm, so Zen is stuck. “Jumin?” he repeats. “Jumin, you’re crying.” He feels stupid to point it out, but there isn’t anything else he can think of to say.

Zen gently takes Jumin’s mug from his hands, placing the two hot chocolates on the floor.

Jumin, hands now free, hides his face in his palms with shame. “You don’t... “ he stops, taking a deep breath, trying to rush the words out before he ends up hiccuping again. “...Don’t need to do anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve done enough… for me already,” Jumin says with a small hiccup interrupting his words, as he begins to scrub at the tears on his face with his sleeves. “I need to stop being so _pathetic_.” He laughs wetly, the soft chuckle ending in another heartwrenching sob. “ _Look_ at me. I’m falling apart. Why am I…?”

“Because you’re human, and humans have feelings,” Zen tells him in reply, words soft around the edges, no longer brash nor teasing. “And humans who have feelings tend to cry from time to time. It doesn’t make you any less human than you are, you idiot.”

“Feelings,” Jumin repeats, shaking his head. Zen wants to do _something_ —wants to reach out, touch him, anything but sit here and watch Jumin shatter for the second time tonight—and even though it’s not as intensive this time around, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Yes, dumbass, _feelings_ ,” Zen chuckles. “You need to express your emotions. Even somebody like you, Han Jumin, can’t keep everything locked up inside your entire life. You’re not a robot, no matter how much we joke that you are. You have emotions, you have feelings, sometimes we all need to cry it out, and that’s absolutely _okay_.”

“Then I can handle this myself,” Jumin murmurs, tilting his head up to face the ceiling, still keeping an arm to shield his eyes entirely. Zen muses on whether or not his words got through the moron’s ridiculously thick skull.

“Well…” Zen says. “Do you need your space? I can go out—”

“ _No_ ,” Jumin interjects, a hand lashing out and seizing Zen’s wrist. It reminds the albino of the moment earlier, the same hand wrapped around the same wrist, the same gray eyes begging him to _stay_. Jumin’s gaze lingers on Zen for far too long, tears cascading down his cheeks without ceasing.

“Jumin?” A hushed name, raw and rasping, whispered into the air.

A whisper in return; tremulous, _desperate_. “Please… just. Stay.”

(Jumin has been alone his entire life. Now that someone is here for him, Zen thinks that the man just can’t let him go.)

Zen doesn’t need to say anything. He just grins, a pitiful expression resting on his face. After all, the stupid idiot has gotten him wrapped around his finger from the start. _Jumin, you’re a fucking dumbass._

“Yeah. I will.”

By the time Jumin gathers his bearings, Zen is already growing tired. Much to his happiness, Jumin is no longer crying but his eyes are as puffy as ever. They were already all swollen after his first breakdown, and this second one obviously just made it worse. (Still a bit cute though. Not that Zen would ever admit it. Not that Zen would ever admit anything.)

He and Jumin look at each other, probably one of the only times in their lives where their glances aren’t fiery or filled with loathing. Instead, ill will has been taken over by softheartedness, a new feeling for the both of them. Or perhaps, it has always been there, hidden and just waiting for the correct moment to show itself. Maybe they never _really_ hated each other at all.

“Are you not tired?” Zen asks. Somewhere along the way, Jumin’s hold had slipped from Zen’s wrist to his hand, so that their fingers were interlaced.

Jumin perks up a bit; Zen can’t tell if the crimson on his cheeks are from crying or the prior embarrassment _because_ of crying. “Ah. Yes, a little bit.”

“Of course then,” Zen says, standing up. “I’ll prepare our bed. Do you mind standing...up…?” he trails off once he feels Jumin’s burning gaze on him. Zen tilts his head in confusion. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“ _Our…_ bed?”

Huh.

_Huh._

Zen’s face flushes with a shrill shriek after processing what he had said. Stupid, stupid, stupid! _Our bed?!_ “I phrased that wrong! I wasn’t implying that I wanted to sleep with you, oh _fuck_ that also sounds wrong, I meant that I wasn’t implying that I wanted to sleep beside you in my bed, oh fuck that isn’t any better—!” he pauses once he notices that he’s still holding hands with Jumin. With another shrill shriek he recoils, starting to furiously shake his hand in the air like he had touched a burning fire. “Ah, this is awkward, I’m sorry oh my fucking—”

Jumin bursts with laughter, quieting Zen’s flustered yells. “Hyun,” he laughs, cheeks now pink with delight, “It’s fine. If sleeping in the same bed is what you want, then I don’t see an issue?”

Huh.

**_Huh?!_ **

“You…!” Zen seethes, but he can’t say anything else because Jumin’s laughter is silencing him as it has been tending to do recently. Why is it such a pleasing sound? “You… Ugh! I take everything back, I really do hate you. There is _no way_ I’m sleeping in the same bed as a jerk like you.”

  
  


They’re in the same bed.

The lights are off, and the tension in the air is palpable beyond belief, so much that Zen thinks that if he were to whip out a knife he would be able to slice it.

_Seriously, how did he find himself in such a goddamned situation?_

Jumin and Zen are facing away from each other, on opposite sides of Zen’s bed. The covers have been pulled up and spread over them evenly (Zen already yelled at Jumin for hogging the blankets), but everything is so, so silent.

Zen had been tired earlier, but now that he’s actually in bed, he doesn’t feel a single drop of the exhaustion that was there a while ago. Was Jumin asleep? Does he even sleep that quickly? Why was Zen sharing a bed with his one and only sworn archnemesis?!

“Jumin?” Zen calls out into the silence.

“ _What_.”

“Oh. You’re awake.”

“Not anymore. Your talking has tired me out. I am now asleep.”

Zen can’t find it in him to make a snarky response in return. Jumin definitely notices, because the uncomfortable tension spurring the air only becomes more and more suffocating. Zen should probably not be under the blankets right now, even though a part of him is aware it’s not the blanket that’s making him feel warm. It’s the fact that he’s sharing! A bed! With his _sworn archnemesis!_

(Though, are they really enemies? What kind of enemies pull this type of romance film bullshit?)

The silence sits for a few more moments. The rain seems to have stopped.

God, Zen can’t take it anymore. He’s done enough tonight, right? He’s indulged himself enough; he made Jumin some hot chocolate, comforted him in the rain, stayed by his side when he had another breakdown… Does he really have it in him now to care anymore? No, no, he has an image to keep up. The image that he really, truly, definitely does not care for Han Jumin. Okay, he does a little, but other than that, he really, truly, _definitely_ does not care for Han Jumin.

Because he has done enough for the cat-loving jerk, so why does it feel like he hasn’t?

Zen rolls over so that he’s on his back, staring at the ceiling. Jumin’s breaths are soft beside him. Zen relishes in the noise, finding comfort in it, but he knows that Jumin is tense, too. He can feel it. The crimson-eyed man sighs; his fingers twitch with restlessness.

_Ah, who is he kidding._

“Just say you want to be held and come over here,” Zen grumbles. Before he can be aware of what he is doing, he scooches over, grabs onto Jumin, and literally fucking _holds him._

It all happens too quickly. One second, Zen and Jumin were on the opposite sides of the bed. The next second, Jumin was frozen, face almost but not quite touching Zen’s chest from where the younger had pulled him in.

What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

But it’s too late to stop, and Zen can’t help but indulge himself further by completely wrapping his arms around Jumin. This is horrible and Zen feels like it should be wrong, but it _doesn't_ feel wrong. It feels far too right for this to be in any way normal.

“What are you doing?” Jumin whispers, but not in resentment. Just confusion.

“I don’t know,” Zen admits, breathless. “Hugging you. Cuddling you?”

And to his surprise, Jumin doesn’t protest. He doesn’t even say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around Zen’s torso, before pushing his face into the crook of the albino’s neck.

What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

Jumin is cuddling him back. What the fuck. Zen forgets to breathe for a second too long, but when he does inhale, he pushes his face into the man’s hair. He smells faintly of rainwater, of regret, of women’s lavender shampoo—but it’s a smell that Zen could get used to, one that tames his racing heart. 

“Is this… okay?” Zen asks, soft. Gentle. Sweet.

“It is,” comes Jumin’s reply, confirmation that eases Zen.

Zen closes his eyes and swallows thickly, trying to moisten his now-dry mouth. Jumin’s breaths are hot against his neck, making the hair there stand up, and suddenly Zen has two things to really think about: Jumin’s lavender-scented hair, and the way his breathing glazes over Zen’s pale skin. But it doesn’t feel wrong. It almost feels like home.

“You know, I would do it all over again,” Zen says into Jumin’s hair, the words slightly muffled. “Run into the rain just to catch up with you. I really hate you, I do. I hate you so much. But I also hate how confused you make me, because if I hate you, why does every moment I have been spending with you feel so right?”

Jumin doesn’t have a sufficient reply, not that Zen expected him to have one. Instead, he says, “I don’t know.”

Zen chuckles a bit. Jumin… he feels so small in his arms, despite being taller than Zen. He feels so terrifyingly at home in his arms, that it scares Zen a little bit. Jumin has shown Zen so many different sides of him tonight but yet they’re all sides of him that Zen wants to continue to see. He feels _special_. Can he really have this? Can he really let himself have this? 

“You’re not all that bad,” Zen smiles. “Maybe… I do care about you a lot more than I hate you. I didn’t want to say it, but I think I really, really do.”

(Zen had sworn to himself over and over again that he would never admit that. Yet, here he is; docile with his enemy’s arms wrapped around him like a safe haven, something ethereally euphoric that Zen can’t let go. Zen had sworn to himself to never admit it, but if it’s just to Jumin, maybe that’s enough. Maybe it can be enough for them.)

Sometimes silence is good. The thing is, they both know when to be silent at the right times. This is one of those times; Jumin’s soft breathing filling the empty spaces, comfortable quietness filling the rest.

Somewhere during that comfortable silence, Jumin murmurs another quiet thanks, but Zen just holds him closer. Tonight, they can have this. Maybe everything will change when they wake up in the morning, but right now, Zen has never felt more at home. He can only hope that Jumin feels the same way.

(You see, if Zen’s future self visited him and told him that one fateful day he would be holding that trust fund jerk in his arms, keeping him steady as he sobs, kneeling in the pouring rain, Zen’s own jacket draped on Jumin’s shoulders, and now cuddling with him on the same bed… he would have simply laughed. But this is real, this is physical.)

The world has always seemed to swallow Zen up, but just as he had felt earlier, the world feels like Han Jumin and Ryu Hyun. Small, holding them both, leaving them to each other’s presence. Tonight, Zen doesn’t find comfort in the rain, but rather he has found it through Jumin, and it feels so amazing yet forbidden that he can’t manage to put it in words.

“Goodnight,” Zen says.

Jumin’s voice is deep and quiet. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

For the first time in far too long, Zen knows that he will.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

here is a small piece of art i did for that sweater paw scene >:) i am not the best digital artist haha 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, you made it! i hope this was okay. thank you for reading!
> 
> kudos + comments always appreciated :D
> 
> (ooh- let me know if you want more to this fic? like a sequel or make this a series of fics idk)


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